Nightsister
by Shadowsong1
Summary: Rating for violence and potential sex. We introduce an pretty little oddball named Samara. She falls in love with Achmed. They're perfect for each other...I mean, both are half Dhracian...
1. Default Chapter

Nightsister  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone except Samara, Celebrond, the midwife, and the Grandmother (she's a different one). Anyone else who comes up that isn't in the trilogy is probably mine-if they aren't, I'll bestow credit where credit is due.  
  
Author's Notes: This is the beginning of a story about a very strange character.she's half-Lirin, half-Dhracian. (No, I *don't* know exactly how this occurred.) She is Achmed's soulmate. We don't see *him* until later, though.  
  
Prologue: Birth  
  
The midwife slowly stood up. She went quietly before the Grandmother.  
  
"It is done, then?" the Grandmother asked.  
  
"Yes, Grandmother," the midwife whispered.  
  
"Male or female?"  
  
"Female."  
  
"Let me see her."  
  
The midwife handed the Grandmother the infant girl. She had soft, downy black hair and the build of her Liringlas father, but the rest of her was like her Dhracian mother. She opened one dark eye-it had whites, but no pupil.  
  
"She is like her father in many ways," the midwife remarked quietly.  
  
"Then her name should be of her father's people," the Grandmother mused. "Perhaps.Samara."  
  
The midwife blinked. "Nightsister?"  
  
The Grandmother nodded. "This child is our best hope since the Brother disappeared. It is only fitting that her name should be 'sister.' Aside from this, she is one of the Zhereditck."  
  
The midwife nodded. "This all makes sense. But why Samara? Why Nightsister?"  
  
"She is sister to the night," the Grandmother replied simply. "I assume she is the reason her mother is dead?"  
  
"Yes, Grandmother. I did what I could."  
  
The Grandmother bowed her head. "Blood-gift?"  
  
"I do not know, Grandmother."  
  
The Grandmother nodded, then turned away. She brought Samara to her own dwelling-area. "Samara," she whispered, getting the flavor and feel of the child's name. "Nightsister. Do not fail us. You cannot fail us. Everything depends on you." She sighed, and carried Samara out to greet the Colony. 


	2. Marinwae

**Nightsister  
  
Disclaimer: **I don't own anyone except Samara, the midwife, and the Grandmother (she's a different one). Anyone else who comes up that isn't in the trilogy is probably mine—if they aren't, I'll bestow credit where credit is due.  
  
**Author's Notes: **This is the beginning of a story about a very strange character...she's half-Lirin, half-Dhracian. (No, I don't know exactly how this occurred.) She is Achmed's soulmate. We don't see him until later, though.  
  
**Chapter 1: Marinwae**  
  
Samara stared at the various swords lined up in the shop. When she had woken up this morning, she had randomly decided that she needed to learn how to use a sword. Never mind that she excelled with knives and really didn't need to learn another complicated form of combat, she just felt like it.  
  
She loved her weapons, particularly her blades, and she loved the power they gave her.  
  
One sword in particular caught her attention. It was sitting in a forgotten corner of the shop, in a plain black sheath with a hilt wrapped in matching leather. She carefully reached out and touched the hilt—  
  
_Hello! _a very bright, very hyper voice said in her head.  
  
She very nearly yelped and dropped the sword.  
  
"That one ta yer liking, missy?" Derrik, the shopkeeper, asked.  
  
"Yes...yes, how much?" she said, still a little dazed from the experience of having a voice suddenly speak in her head.  
  
He studied the sword. "Twenty-five. No less."  
  
"Cheapskate."  
  
"Mutt-bitch."  
  
"Fifteen, scum."  
  
"Twenty-two, slut."  
  
"Seventeen, my final offer, warthog-faced buffoon."  
  
He blinked. "That be a new one, missy."  
  
"Then you accept?"  
  
"Not on yer life. Twenty-one. Not a penny less, yeh'll beggar me, whore."  
  
She threw up her hands in disgust. "Do you know the meaning of the word imagination? Eighteen, pig."  
  
"Twenty, bitch."  
  
"Foul! Used it already!"  
  
"I said mutt-bitch afore, this time I said bitch!"  
  
"Either way, you called me a female dog, thus you repeat yourself, therefore I win. Eighteen."  
  
Derrik sighed. "Aye, harlot, yeh win. She's yers for eighteen."  
  
Samara grinned triumphantly. "Thank you, sludge."  
  
"Yeh'll be the death of me, streetwalker."  
  
"No I won't. You enjoy our haggle-insult sessions as much as I do. Plus, I'm your best customer, monkey-face."  
  
"Even if yeh do cheat me and buy me good swords and knives for nothing at all. Dunno why I sell 'em so cheap, painted lady. Yeh must be seducin' me."  
  
"Damn straight, miserable piece of dog droppings. And you've used synonyms for 'prostitute' at least four times today. I should get a discount, but I'll let you off easy. Because I'm nice."  
  
"Aye, real nice, addict. Yeh buy me swords for nothing, and yeh add insult ta the injury with yer words."  
  
"I know, O Great Worthless Idiotic Imbecilic Dumb Lackwit Completely and Totally Brainless Seller of Swords, Knives, and All Things Bladed," she said, grinning impudently. "That's why you love me."  
  
"Aye, O Queen of Whores. That be why."  
  
"Too short. I win. I get a discount next time, slimy, mangy, filthy cur."  
  
"Damn!"  
  
"Didn't insult me, oaf. Looks like I take home the sword and the victory!"  
  
Without waiting for his response—Derrik knew how to use every blade in his shop—she scampered out the door.

Samara wasn't beautiful, by any definition of the word. Well, at least, not from the shoulders up. She had a nice enough body, with her slight build added to her years of teaching herself how to use knives, but her face was another matter entirely. It wasn't that she was precisely ugly, rather that...  
  
Well, let's just say Lirin faces don't mix with Dhracian ones.She had large, oval, almost insectlike eyes, which set her apart from her Lirin family, but they were grey, which set her apart from the Dhracian colony. She had always been different, an outsider. In an effort to hide the distinctive veins on her face (proof of her Dhracian heritage), she had had her sister tattoo star and flower patterns on her face, making the veins seem part of the design.  
  
Pain beyond imagining, pain that never faded entirely.  
  
She unlocked her apartment, and set the sword on her bed. It hadn't spoken since that first cheerful greeting in Derrik's shop.  
  
"All right, then, sword, I'm waiting."  
  
_ You're very rude, you know. I do have a name.  
_  
"So I wasn't dreaming..."  
  
_ Nope!_ the voice said cheerfully. _And now you're stuck with me! We'll be lifelong friends!  
_  
"I don't believe this...I'm talking to a sword!"  
  
_ Get used to it. You'll be doing it a lot, if I have my way with things.  
_  
"Your way will be out the window or to an extremely hot fire if you don't give me some real answers, now."  
  
_Ok, ok,_ the sword said hastily. _What do you want to know?  
  
_"For starters, what the hell are you, what the hell made you, how the hell are you talking, and why me?"  
  
_ That's a lot of questions._ Samara glared at the sword. _I'll answer them, just give me some time. Last question first: I picked you._  
  
"Why?"  
  
_ 'Cause I felt like it. As for what the hell I am—by the way, you need to clean up your language—  
_  
"I will not clean up my damn language unless I bloody well feel like it, and I certainly won't do it at the request of a damn talking SWORD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU????"  
  
_ Quiet, your neighbors will hear. And please use my name.  
_  
"I will as soon as your worshipfulness tells me what it is!" Samara said through gritted teeth.  
  
_ It's Marinwae. Please use it in the future. As for what I am, what made me, and how I'm talking...well...let's start with what I am first. It's easiest. Have you ever heard of the Greatswords? _


End file.
